Risk
by Be Summer Rain
Summary: How long is it going to take? Because, really, the unresolved sexual tension is driving me insane.


_Risk_

Elliot Stabler, dedicated Manhattan detective, was currently hard at work at his present task, which was making sure that the creases in his paper airplane were as sharp as possible in order to achieve maximum flight time.

"Don't think that just because I'm not looking up I don't know exactly what you're doing," said Olivia, who was at least pretending to do something useful. "And if you dare throw that thing at me, believe me, you _will_ live to regret it."

"Really?" he smirked. "What sort of punishment would you dole out?"

She lifted her head to give him a scorching glare, then returned to her work, which, upon closer inspection, would prove to be an intricate doodle of a pair of handcuffs. He took advantage of her lapse of attention to toss the airplane lightly at her, intending to lodge it in her hair. To his dismay, a door somewhere in the building slammed shut, creating a gust of wind and sending his paper contraption directly into the path of none other than Captain Cragen. Cragen snatched the airplane out of the air, looking less than amused.

"If you don't have enough to do, Detective Stabler," he said icily, "I'm sure I can find some other paperwork."

"Sorry, Cap," Elliot muttered, ducking his head so that the grin on his face couldn't be seen.

Olivia looked at him disapprovingly, then glanced over at the piles of folders on her own desk. Surely he wouldn't notice…and it would serve him right, anyway. She grabbed the top file as if to begin working on it, and as Elliot looked idly around the room, she slipped it on top of his own pile. She barely suppressed a giggle; this was great. She recalled Elliot telling her about Dickie slowly moving a pile of peas over to Lizzie's plate, and how the whole family had burst into laughter at the look of horror on her face when she finally looked down at her meal. It had worked for Dickie all right, she figured, and so continued with her mission, thoroughly enjoying herself. This was much more fun than actually _opening_ the files.

However, her actions did not go entirely unnoticed. While Elliot was far too restless to notice anything out of the ordinary going on, Munch, similarly bored, was keeping an eye on the situation over the top of his glasses. He watched as Olivia attempted a double spin – she slid two folders onto his pile. And she landed it beautifully; he thought the judges ought to give her full marks. When he looked back at his desk, he could have sworn that his pile had been smaller, but surely Fin wouldn't resort to such juvenile tactics. He hoped.

Olivia realized dimly that he was bound to catch on sometime, but she couldn't resist. The last one, she promised herself, or else he'd notice the discrepancy. As she was putting the final touch on what she considered to be a masterpiece of sneakiness, he reached out and grabbed her wrist.

"And just what, Detective Benson, do you think you're doing?" he asked in his lowest interrogation room voice.

"Um," she said squeakily, "returning one of your files that I had to look at." She noticed that he hadn't yet released her hand, but he realized it at the same time and let her go.

"Are you sure you weren't just giving me your files?" he asked dangerously.

"Positive, Stabler. Honestly, if you're going to accuse me of something, make it something good."

He surveyed their respective desks suspiciously. "Then why is your pile so much smaller than mine?"

"Because I, unlike you, have been working diligently."

"Really? Let's see what you've gotten done."

She floundered for a moment. "Captain came by and took 'em."

"He never came by."

"You just didn't notice. Lost in your own little world."

He smirked again. "And quite happy there, I might add." He held eye contact with her until she felt color rise to her cheeks.

"You think the city could spring for better air conditioning," she grumbled. "Middle of August and we're sitting here roasting."

Across the room, Munch had abandoned all pretense of work. He didn't mind if Fin followed Olivia's example, as he had his own ways of getting out of paperwork, none of which he cared to divulge. "Hot, my ass," he mumbled. "That's a blush if I've ever seen one."

"No offense, but yo' ass ain't exactly what I'd call hot," replied Fin from across the desk.

Munch rolled his eyes. "Don't pretend you haven't noticed."

"Your ass, or that most of the heat over there is self-generated? Yeah, so?"

Munch leaned forward in his chair, careful to keep his voice low. Hopefully everyone would think that they were talking about a case. "So, you think they're screwing around yet?"

"Nah," Fin responded. "Catholic guilt'll get you every time."

Munch sighed. "How long is it going to take?" he asked petulantly. "Because, really, the unresolved sexual tension over there is driving me insane."

"Like tha's an accomplishment."

He made a face. "You are no fun, my friend."

"Ain't my job to be fun," Fin reminded him.

"Come on. Seriously. How long'll it take?"

"Could be never. They got their heads buried pretty far in the sand."

"True," Munch conceded. "But still. The divorce has been final for months. Elliot hasn't been biting her head off every time she opens her mouth. I'd bet on the end of the month."

"Risky," said Fin.

"Care to wager?"

"Ten bucks says three months, at least. Anytime after September, you owe me."

"Deal." They shook hands.

"Glad to see we're all getting along," said the Captain, emerging from his office again, "but could we channel some of that energy into paperwork?"

"We were just congratulating ourselves on figuring some stuff out," explained Munch. "Tying up loose ends." Cragen looked at him suspiciously but didn't comment. All four detectives busied themselves with open folders. Whether or not they were actually getting anywhere is open for discussion.

An hour later, Cragen called out, "Benson and Stabler! My office!" He had left the door open in hopes of attracting a breeze. When no reply came, he poked his head out into the larger room. "Munch," he said in exasperation, "go find them, will you?" It was times like these which made him oddly grateful for never having had kids. He had quite enough to deal with, thank you.

Munch heaved himself out of his chair. He'd seen them head down the corridor, bickering all the way, and had assumed they were en route to Casey's office. He was following their steps down the hall when he heard a most peculiar noise, consisting of assorted thumps. He cocked his head to one side, listening for the source, then pulled open the door to a nearby storage closet and poked his head inside. He retracted it so quickly that he nearly gave himself whiplash.

"They'll be coming along in a moment, Captain," he reported, back in the squad room. "As for you, my friend," he said as he settled back in his desk, "it appears you owe me some money to the tune of, oh, ten bucks." Clearly there were benefits to wagering on inter-office romances, risky as it was. After all, as the two in question had so clearly demonstrated for him, the risk of being caught was half the fun.

(the end)


End file.
